Unmasked: My Life Solving America's Cold Cases

By Paul Holes and Robin Gaby Fisher

**THE INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER**

"It’s a mark of the highest honor when I say it’s even more riveting than an episode of 'Dateline'."
—The New York Times

From Paul Holes, the detective who found the Golden State Killer, Unmasked is a memoir that "grabs its reader in a stranglehold and proves more fascinating than fiction and darker than any noir narrative." (LA Magazine)

I order another bourbon, neat. This is the drink that will flip the switch. I don’t even know how I got here, to this place, to this point. Something is happening to me lately. I’m drinking too much. My sheets are soaking wet when I wake up from nightmares of decaying corpses. I order another drink and swig it, trying to forget about the latest case I can’t shake.

Crime solving for me is more complex than the challenge of the hunt, or the process of piecing together a scientific puzzle. The thought of good people suffering drives me, for better or worse, to the point of obsession. People always ask how I am able to detach from the horrors of my work. Part of it is an innate capacity to compartmentalize; the rest is experience and exposure, and I’ve had plenty of both. But I have always taken pride in the fact that I can keep my feelings locked up to get the job done. It’s only been recently that it feels like all that suppressed darkness is beginning to seep out.

When I look back at my long career, there is a lot I am proud of. I have caught some of the most notorious killers of the twenty-first century and brought justice and closure for their victims and families. I want to tell you about a lifetime solving these cold cases, from Laci Peterson to Jaycee Dugard to the Pittsburg homicides to, yes, my twenty-year-long hunt for the Golden State Killer.

But a deeper question eats at me as I ask myself, at what cost? I have sacrificed relationships, joy—even fatherhood—because the pursuit of evil always came first. Did I make the right choice? It’s something I grapple with every day. Yet as I stand in the spot where a young girl took her last breath, as I look into the eyes of her family, I know that, for me, there has never been a choice. “I don’t know if I can solve your case,” I whisper. “But I promise I will do my best.”

It is a promise I know I can keep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781250622822

Paul Holes

Paul Holes retired as a cold case investigator after spending over 27 years working for the Sheriff and District Attorney's Offices during his tenure in Contra Costa County, located in the Bay Area, California. Having experience in both forensic and investigative assignments, Paul throughout his career specialized in cold case and serial predator crimes, developing and applying investigative, behavioural and forensic expertise in notable cases such as Golden State Killer and Jaycee Dugard. Paul is frequently sought out by investigators to consult on the most complex and high profile cases. As an FBI Task Force Officer while employed with the DA's Office, Paul teamed with FBI and Sacramento DA personnel to apply innovative technology that identified Joseph DeAngelo as the Golden State Killer, the most prolific serial predator in US history. Since the arrest of DeAngelo, Paul has been very involved on the media side continuing to assist law enforcement and victims' families with their unsolved cases, through the television shows The DNA of Murder with Paul Holes and America's Most Wanted, and with the podcast Jensen & Holes: The Murder Squad.

Book preview

Prologue

DECEMBER 2019

I order another bourbon, neat. This is the drink that will flip the switch. I don’t even know how I got here, to this place, to this point. One minute I was having dinner and drinks with friends, discussing my latest cold case—the rape and strangulation of a young girl after her high school Valentine’s Day dance—and the next thing I knew we were all piling into an Uber going, where? I had no idea. Something is happening to me lately. I’m drinking too much. My sheets are soaking wet when I wake up from nightmares of decaying corpses. I’ve looked at a woman, and rather than seeing the beauty of the female body, I’ve dissected it, layer by layer, as if she were on the autopsy table. I have visualized dead women during intimate moments, and I shut down.

People always ask how I am able to detach from the horrors of my work. Part of it is an innate capacity to compartmentalize, to put my thoughts in mental boxes and only access what I need, when I need it. The rest is experience and exposure, and I’ve had plenty of both. The macabre becomes familiar enough that I can dissociate from even the grisliest details of the job. I file the gore in my brain under science. I suppose anyone can become desensitized to anything if they see enough of it, even dead bodies, and I’ve been looking at them since college when I spent hours studying death scenes in pathology books.

But real life, of course, isn’t black and white like those textbook photographs. On one hand, I am fortunate to have been born with a good, analytical brain. On the other, my heart bleeds when it comes to innocent victims. Crime solving for me is more complex than the challenge of the hunt, or the process of piecing together a scientific puzzle. The thought of good people suffering drives me, for better or worse, to the point of obsession. But I have always taken pride in the fact that I can keep my feelings locked up to get the job done.

It’s only been recently that it feels like all that suppressed darkness is beginning to seep out. The dam is breaking. I’m cratering fast. So I end up in a place like this, a bar on Hollywood Boulevard called Jumbo’s Clown Room. Yes, it’s a real place. Entirely red inside. Red walls. Red floors. Red bar. Red lights. I order another drink and swig it, trying to forget about the latest case I can’t shake.

---

CARLA WALKER WAS A TEENAGER WHO was full of life and spunk, four feet, eleven inches tall and twinkly eyed, with everything to look forward to. Looking at her picture, I would have guessed she was nine years old, not seventeen. In the crime scene photos, she’s lying in a desolate cow culvert. Her head is tilted toward me, and her eyes are closed. She has a tiny little nose. Her face contradicts the savagery she endured during the final moments of her life. She looks serene, like a sleeping doll. She’s dressed in the same blue dotted swiss party dress with lace trim that she was wearing when she kissed her parents good night and headed out to a Valentine’s Day dance at her high school, only the dress has been torn off and placed carefully over her bare chest, leaving her naked lower body exposed. Two blue barrettes are still intact, but her pretty strawberry blond hair is muddy and disheveled. Thin swipes of blue on her eyelids, which, I was told, she worked so hard to match to her dress, are smudged. Semen stains, dark purple bruises around her neck, and contusions on her arms and legs tell the story of a horrific death. I study her injuries and envision what happened. Young Carla was violently beaten, raped, and strangled, and her body dragged through a barbed wire fence and ditched like garbage in the middle of nowhere, where it lay for nearly four days.

Carla’s murder is no closer to being solved today than it was when it happened in 1974. But forty-five years later, the collateral damage continues to fester. Her younger brother, Jim Walker, was twelve when Carla was killed. Now he’s a little older than me. When I decided to look into the cold case recently, I met with Jim in a suburb of Fort Worth. He told me that after he got his driver’s license, he used to steal away to the crime scene and spend nights in the culvert, waiting for Carla’s killer to show. There was something about Jim that broke my heart, and I found myself choking back tears talking to him. All this time later, the pain on his face is as fresh as if he’d lost his sister yesterday. It was even worse for his parents, he said. They suffered in silence until their deaths. His mother kept a portrait of Carla and touched it every morning when she woke up. It was her way of saying Good morning to her daughter. That’s the thing about these tragedies. There are so many victims. So many shattered lives. So many families torn apart. Healing is subjective, but the scars never fade, and the pain is always a breath away. It’s a terrible way to spend your life.

I promised Carla’s family that I’d do everything in my power to solve her murder. The only peace they’ll get will come with knowing who killed her, and why. And when I went to the culvert, I promised Carla, too, that I’d work tirelessly to catch her killer. I’m committed to Carla. People think I’m strictly analytical, and that’s how I present myself, but there is something very spiritual for me when I’m at a crime scene. I don’t just put myself in the minds of the offender and the victim, which is critical to my crime-solving process. I make my peace with the victim.

As it was in Carla’s case.

The culvert where Carla was dumped is a lonely place, a tunnel under a road in rural Texas about ten miles from her high school and the Walker family home.

Standing in the exact spot where her body had lain, it was as if I was witnessing the whole terrible attack. I see the offender looming over Carla, his eyes wild with excitement as he pulls off her underwear and yanks her bra up over her breasts, ripping her party dress in his frenzy. I see her, eyes dilated, heart pounding, breath fast and shallow. Adrenaline courses through her body, and she is in full-on fear mode—fight, flight, or freeze—but she’s too small and not nearly powerful enough to compete with her attacker. He grimaces as he places his hands around her neck. He starts to squeeze, and she grabs at his hands and arms, trying to loosen his hold. She gouges her own skin with her fingernails as she claws futilely at his death grip. Carla has to know this is the end of her life. There’s nothing she can do to save herself. Her body is shutting down. The outer jugular veins begin to collapse, but her heart continues to push blood to her brain through the carotids, causing an intense buildup of pressure in her head. Research suggests that at this point, victims lose consciousness within six to ten seconds, but offenders have reported it can take much longer—several minutes—for a victim to die.

I can almost feel Carla as she takes her last breath. I kneel down and touch the spot where her head would have been. I’m here for you, I say. I don’t know if I can solve your case, but I promise I will do my best.

It is a promise I know I can keep.

---

JUMBO’S CLOWN ROOM IS GETTING LOUDER. The music blasts, and women in skimpy bikinis climb onstage. Some swing on poles placed around the bar. Others slither seductively on the floor, scooping up dollar bills that people, both men and women, are tossing onstage. I’m sure the patrons mean well, but it feels wrong, disrespectful. I can’t even watch the dancers. I wonder what kind of lives they have. I worry that they’re putting themselves in danger. I know I shouldn’t be here—what am I doing?—and I signal to the others that I’m headed out. As I pull on my jacket, a dancer catches my eye. She’s maybe twenty, younger than my oldest daughter, and she’s making her way toward me, slinking across the stage. I look at her and envision her broken body sprawled in a muddy ditch. I shudder, then pull out a hundred-dollar bill, wrap it in a single, and hold it out to her. Please, I say, as she bends down to take the cash. Be careful. The sultry expression drops from her face, and I see the little girl.

Getting up from the bar, I walk unsteadily out onto Hollywood Boulevard and hail a cab.

Where are you going, buddy? the driver asks as I slide into the back seat.

Crazy, I think, wiping away tears. I’m going fucking crazy.

1

The End of the Road

MARCH 2018

My ex-wife used to say my job was my mistress, and I chose my mistress over everyone. Those charged conversations from long ago rang in my ears as I stood in my office, boxing up the last of my belongings. Paul, you’ve lost your way.… We need you.… Even when you’re here you’re not really here. Lori was right about a lot of things. I wasn’t there for my family—not then and not now—not in the way they wanted me to be. Not in the way I wanted to be. My work was never a job. It was a calling, my purpose, as vital to me as air and water. For nearly thirty years, I’d chosen my cases over everything. There was always a crime scene to attend, always a predator to chase down. I was happiest when I was digging into a cold case. The challenge of trying to figure out what no one else could was irresistible to me. Now I was facing down the end of a career that had consumed my entire adult life. The time had passed in a blink.

Looking around my office, at the empty shelves, at the bare desktop, I took a deep breath. What was I feeling? Was it uncertainty? Had I been kidding myself when I decided that retirement wouldn’t be so bad? That I’d finally have the time to take guitar lessons and pedal my mountain bike on rocky trails? That I’d find some other way to matter?

My office was in the county complex in the industrial city of Martinez in California’s East Bay. The sun was just peeking up over the horizon when I climbed the stairs to the third floor of the criminal justice building. I had come in especially early to gather my things before my colleagues got there. I’ve always been quietly sentimental, especially about endings and the past. Just the other day, I drove to the first house I owned and parked on the street. The house had been brand-new when I bought it with my first wife in 1992. It was where I’d learned how to take care of a home. I built the deck on the back and planted the saplings that now tower over the rooftop. Sitting in my car, I could almost imagine myself back there, in the family room, playing with my firstborn, Renee, still too young to sit, all toothless grin and happy babble as I prop up pillows to keep her upright. Now she has a little girl of her own.

I’ve never been a crier, but lately the tears were coming without warning, as they did that day, driving away from my old house. Yet another reason to gather my things and get out of town before my colleagues began arriving. Was I becoming a sentimental old man at the age of fifty? My dad got softer in his older years, slowly changing from the detached career-military guy who raised me to the playful grandfather who made funny faces with my kids. I was determined to be stoic on my last day, but this place had been my life. I wasn’t sure I would have chosen to leave the job if California’s pension system hadn’t made it financially irresponsible to stay. I’d spent nearly every day since I was twenty-two years old living and working under the dome of Contra Costa County government. The most relevant chapters of my story had played out here. Every career move. All of the ups and downs of my first marriage. The births of my first two kids. Meeting my second wife, Sherrie. The births of our son and daughter. Dozens of homicides solved. Others still unresolved, but never forgotten, and now headed home with me on a hard drive.

Tomorrow, my office, historically reserved for whoever was chosen to oversee homicides for the district attorney, would be turned over to my successor. They would fill the empty shelves where my collection of books on forensics, sexual homicide, and serial killers had grown. They would sit behind the computer monitor I’d kept at an angle so passersby couldn’t see the gruesome crime scene images that were so often on the screen. Maybe they’d make the time to wipe the years’ worth of grunge off the window overlooking the Sacramento River delta. The shimmer of the water was hypnotic, but I’d barely noticed. I was always too immersed in my work.

---

MY JURISDICTION STRETCHED OVER HUNDREDS OF square miles of San Francisco’s Bay Area. With a population of more than a million people, we had our share of crime. Four of our cities were on the FBI’s list of California’s one hundred most dangerous places. I’d worked on hundreds of homicides, but I’d spent the last few years almost exclusively mining cold case files. Every casualty comes with collateral damage, those who are left to pick up their lives in the agonizing aftermath of murder, and nothing motivated me more than the idea of a killer having the freedom to live a normal life after he’d destroyed so many others.

There was never a shortage of bad guys in our slice of the world, and for whatever reason, some of the most sensational crimes in contemporary history occurred in Contra Costa County. In 2003, the bodies of Laci Peterson and her unborn son, Conner, washed up a day apart on our shores, four months after Laci’s husband, Scott, dumped her body into the freezing cold waters of the San Francisco Bay. I met mother and child in the morgue, and even with all of my experience with evil, it’s something I’ll never forget. Conner was less than a month from birth when Laci was murdered. What kind of monster kills his eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant wife and goes about his life knowing she and his unborn son are anchored to the cold ocean floor with concrete blocks?

Six years after that, Jaycee Dugard, who’d been famously grabbed at her school bus stop in South Lake Tahoe in 1991, when she was eleven, was discovered 170 miles from home, living in a run of tents and lean-tos in the fenced backyard of her captors, sex offender Phillip Garrido and his wife, Nancy, in our jurisdiction. By then, she was twenty-nine and had given birth to two of Garrido’s children. For eighteen years, she had been right under our noses. My detective buddy John Conaty was at the scene with me shortly after Jaycee and her young children were rescued. How the hell did we miss this? he asked, looking around at the cruel, filthy environment that she’d been forced to live in for eighteen years. I just shook my head. I had no words.

I’d caught so many strange cases over the years. Even when a case wasn’t mine, if I thought I could contribute, whether with my forensics expertise or investigative doggedness, I always found a way to insert myself. I always thought maybe I could see something that the last guy had missed. It wasn’t arrogance; it was just that I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Both my wife and my ex-wife have ribbed me about being overly confident in myself and my abilities. I’d say that’s about half-right. I can put on a good show when I have to, but I’m an introvert by nature and painfully reluctant when it comes to personal interactions. Put me face-to-face with a neighbor at a cocktail party, and my insides are twisting in knots. Sitting with a group at a restaurant, I shrink from the conversation. I am Paul the wallflower. And speaking in front of large groups? When I first started, it was paralyzing. It’s better now that I’ve had so much experience talking about the high-profile cases I’ve been involved with, but it still requires a shot of bourbon before I take the stage.

I’ve always been most at home when I’m working on a case, my head buried in a file. I know I’m good at what I do and that I have a fighting chance at solving even the toughest cases that may have stumped others. Before I ever earned the right, I never trusted anyone else’s hunches about a homicide. I’ll think about it, I’d say skeptically. My instincts were made for this kind of work, and I almost always follow them. It takes a lot of time before I feel comfortable accepting someone else’s impulses and ideas. I can see how that could be construed as egotistical, and there were times, especially when I was starting out, that I wasn’t always popular. The veteran criminalists never hesitated to let the rookie know when they thought I was overstepping my boundaries. I regularly heard, That’s not your job, then shrugged as I dove headfirst into an investigation.

So many cases, now reduced to files on a hard drive the size of a pack of cigarettes. It was kind of funny when I thought about it: the last vestiges of my long and distinguished law enforcement career fit into a single fifteen-by-twelve-by-ten-inch storage box. I tossed in the drive, along with the book on serial predators my parents gave me as a birthday gift twenty-five years ago when I first started, the bowl, fork, and spoon I’d kept for all the meals I ate at my desk, and the tan leather coaster with the logo of a lab equipment company that came in handy for those long days that ended with a nightcap at my desk.

Ripping a piece of packing tape from the roll, I prepared to seal the box when something caught my eye. The morning sun reflected off the glass of a picture frame, drawing my attention to the small cluster of family photographs on the credenza beside me. I almost forgot them. They were happy memories, long ago faded into the background of administrative paperwork and homicide case files. My favorite had been taken a decade earlier, when my youngest son, Ben, was a toddler. It was shot from behind as the two of us walked away from a formal ceremony called Inspection of the Troops, me in my Sheriff’s Office dress uniform—Smokey Bear hat, green jacket, and khaki trousers—my boy in a striped polo shirt and shorts, his little arms swinging as he tried to keep up with me.

I paused to study the image, now faded with time. My oldest son, Nathan, from my first marriage, had recently turned twenty-three, and I’d only just begun trying to get to know him. I was learning how hard it was to foster a relationship, even when it was with my own kid, during weekly phone calls that began and ended with stories about video games. How could I expect my son to talk to me about things that mattered when I wasn’t around for the things that mattered? Nathan once told me that he didn’t even remember me living in the house, he was so young when I left. Ben was from my second marriage, but I feared I had been just as emotionally absent with him and his sister, Juliette, as I had with my first set of kids. Did I have regrets about not being there when they were learning to ride a bike or awakening from a bad dream? On my last day on the job, I was just beginning to realize the consequences of putting my career before everything else. I knew more now with the children I had with Sherrie than I did when Nathan and Renee were growing up, the kind of knowledge that comes with age and maturity, but in many ways, I had not changed at all. My second wife, Sherrie, had some of the same grievances that my first wife, Lori, did twenty-five years ago. Like Lori, Sherrie interprets my reticence as not caring, which couldn’t be further from the truth. She’s told me she never knows what I’m thinking. Even when I’m home, I’m not present, she says. I’m always in my head. Why can’t I take some time in the evenings to join her and our kids playing board games? I’ve tried, but within minutes of sitting down, I’m squirming in my seat. I move the little pawn around or toss the dice a few times, and my mind drifts to one of my cases. I can’t even hide it. My lips move with my thoughts. You’re gone again, Sherrie said the other night when she and the kids were talking at dinner, and I was pretending to hear. You’re not listening, she said. You look like a crazy old man with your lips moving.

The only way I knew how to bond with my younger kids was the same as it was with my older two. Take them outside and throw the ball. It’s like Cat’s in the Cradle, that Harry Chapin song, the one where the father is too busy making something of himself to pay much attention to his son. The kid grows up, and the father retires. He calls his son to say he’d like to see him. The son responds, I’d love to, Dad, if I can find the time.… And the father realizes, He’d grown up just like me. My boy was just like me. I choke up whenever I hear it. It hits too close to home. My older daughter Renee and I were hiking recently, and she asked me questions about my marriage to her mom, Lori. Why did you leave us? she asked. Where did it go wrong? I tried to reassure her, telling her that I would always love her mother, but we’d simply been too young to get married and eventually grew apart. It had nothing to do with her or Nathan, I said. I hoped they knew how much I loved them. But Dad, she said, you were just never there. Tucking the framed photo of Ben and me into the side of the box, I took a last look around my office. Fighting back all of the feelings that come with endings, I flipped off the light and closed the door behind me. This has been my whole life, I thought. With my box under my arm and a lump in my throat, I walked down the hallway to the stairs and onto Ward Street in the government district of the city. It was now part of my past. The Sheriff’s Office, where I’d gotten my start. The forensics library, where I’d slept on the floor after working a long night at a crime scene or reading case files into the wee hours of the morning. The courthouse, where I’d testified dozens of times. The jail, where I’d lifted weights during lunch hours. The district attorney’s office, where I’d spent the last few years. Every law enforcement position I’d ever held was in Martinez, the birthplace of hometown hero Joe DiMaggio. The city was a little rough around the edges, and night and day from where I lived in rural Vacaville, but it was home.

Tomorrow I’d fill out a bunch of paperwork and be debriefed by the FBI about what I could and couldn’t do as a private citizen. You cannot divulge top secret information. You must protect your sources. I’d turn in my gun and my county car and officially retire from law enforcement. After that, there’d be time to think about the next chapter in my life. But there was still one thing I had to do before I closed this one.

2

Last Act

It was nearly noon when I finally snaked my way out of Martinez, my cardboard box of a career on the seat beside me. A veil of smog obscured the brilliant afternoon sun, just as it had in the spring of 1990 when I arrived after college for my first job interview with the county. I remembered thinking then that I was descending into hell after I drove across the mile-long truss bridge, over the sparkling swells of the Sacramento River Delta, and dropped down into the industrial landscape of oil refineries and spewing smokestacks that led to downtown. The landscape hadn’t changed much since then.

Winding my way through the Shell oil refinery and up over the Benicia bridge, I headed north toward Interstate 80. On a good day, traffic should have been light in the early afternoon, but there is never a good day on California’s clogged freeways. It was a long stretch of highway to get to where I was going. The news stations were prattling about Stormy Daniels and some study about Americans getting fatter. I’m not much of a talk radio kind of guy, and it’s safe to say I’m probably what you’d call apolitical, so the playlist on the iPod was my go-to. Music was my therapy. Which kind depended on my mood. When I was pissed, after an argument at home, or a run-in at work, I punched in heavy metal. Last week, it was Metallica, after a witness in a cold homicide blew up at me for bothering her at home. I don’t do conflict well. Being raised in a military family, and strict Catholics to boot, you learn to keep your emotions locked up (which is not so good for maintaining relationships, I’ve learned), so I usually released mine in the gym or, in the case of that angry witness, by blasting headbanger music and drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. On most days, though, I turned to ’70s ballads to relax—you know, Billy Joel, Jim Croce, Neil Diamond kind of stuff. I didn’t like feeling out of control, and my whole life was about to veer into a direction of unknowns. My house in Vacaville was on the market, and as soon as it sold, I was moving the family out of state to Colorado to enjoy the mountains. At the time, I wasn’t sure what I would do for work. I’d thought about starting my own business, Paul Holes Investigates, and because I’d had a fair amount of media exposure from my high-profile cases, I’d been approached by TV producers about possibly consulting on one of those crime channels or news magazine shows. But nothing was certain, and the uncertainty made me nervous. I’d suffered from panic attacks since I was a kid, and the music helped to keep my anxiety in

Reviews for Unmasked

[bookmarque · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Liked it ok, but Paul's odd speech cadence and pronunciation made my teeth ache.

[lvstrongpuff · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I liked this book. My only problem was the jumping back and forth threw me a few times.

[andy5185 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A very interesting inside look at what it’s like to be a cold case investigator and forensic specialist on notable crimes such as the Laci Peterson and Jaycee Dugard cases, and identifying The Golden State Killer. Paul Holes presents an honest and humble snapshot of his life, warts and all. I was amazed at how much he sacrificed of his own life in order to do the job - and how it seems not to have been a choice but something he was driven/born to do. True crime enthusiasts will not be disappointed by the details and the mysteries (and miseries) contained within.

[mstrust · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

While most of the book is about Holes' career, his involvement in catching serial killers, rapists, and his work on the Golden State Killer case, he also includes his personal life here and discusses the toll his work took on his relationships.

If you have an interest in true crime, you know Holes has become an in-demand speaker and podcaster with an amazing memory for facts. Here he goes over his methods of processing a crime scene with an attention to detail and overlooked clues.

[danielle.desrochers · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It's hard for me to not give a memoir 5 stars, but I think that having read a few books by John Douglas, the writing style is what brings this down a star.

I have admired Paul Holes since reading I'll Be Gone In The Dark right after the capture of the GSK, and the way he remembered Michelle McNamara in this was very, very sweet, I think she would have liked that.

I feel like the first half of this was a little slow, and then the second half was so fast paced it felt like sprinting to the end of a marathon. This is why I came up with 4 stars. Definitely worth a read though!

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I like reading true crime books. What I really loved about this book seeing the various crimes featured in this book from Paul's perspective. The way that he assessed each case with his scientific and analytical mind was very intriguing. I think a lot like him and thought about pursuing forensic science as a career.

So many true crime books focus on the crimes and not so much on the details on how the cases are solved. Getting to see this side of things was interesting. I flew through this book as I could not read it fast enough. It must not have been easy to share personal details about your personal life but Paul did. With these insights, into his life, it brought me closer to him as a person. Thank goodness for people like Paul who dedicate their lives to solving the "cold" cases, so that the victims get justice. Fans of true crime books will want to pick up a copy of this book to read for themselves.

[ecataldi-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this from start to finish in one day. Like most of America, I am completely enthralled with the dark parts of history, namely the crime and the murders - especially those that remain unsolved. Paul Holes uses his memoir to write not just about his life, but mainly his fascinating career solving cold cases. He writes about his involvement in the following cases: Lacie Peterson, Jaycee Dugard, and the Golden State Killer. There are lots of other cold cases peppered throughout - but those were some of the notorious cases he worked on during his career. The one he obsesses over the most (causing strains in family life) is of course The Golden State Killer. His insight and behind the scenes knowledge of these infamous cases will keep readers on edge. At times a little braggy, but how can you not be when you have a career like his under your belt. A perfect book for those interested in cold cases and forensics.

[ahef1963 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have mixed feelings about this book. I listened to it, expecting a true crime story, and to some degree I got that, especially the chapters about thea apprehension of the Golden State Killer.

I wasn't expecting a memoir, despite the title, but even if I hadn't anticipated it, I wouldn't have enjoyed the autobiographical nature of the story simply because I found the author incredibly egotistical and self-congratulatory. And I didn't like Mr. Holes. He was an alcoholic, workaholic mess who spent little to no time with his family, and the end of the book doesn't bode well for his marriage.

It got 2.5 stars from me because it wasn't a total wash. I did learn something about DNA typing as used in police forces, and some of the true crime information was interesting. Not a thoroughly bad book, but I wouldn't recommend the book to anyone.

[micareads · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Paul Holes is one of America's most celebrated Criminologists responsible for solving some of the most famous cold cases in modern times. As a young Criminologist, Holes comes across the files for the East Area Rapist(EAR), a man who struck fear into the heart of Sacramento as people wondered when he would attack next.

Paul has worked on this case on and off throughout his career. He revisits crime scenes, talks to victims, and has pieces of evidence DNA tested. It is thanks to this DNA testing that it becomes known that Sacramento was not this rapist's only area of attack. During his time working on what will become known as The Golden State Killer case, Holes not only loses himself to the case; he loses his first wife and the chance to bond with his children. He comes to regret not giving his family more attention.

Twenty-four years go by and Holes retires with his second wife and children. One week into his retirement, his colleagues collect DNA from the main suspect in the GSK case. When tests come back as a match, Paul returns to his office to finally cast his eyes on the man he has spent his life looking for...Joseph J. DeAngelo Jr, an old man who was once a police officer and used his training to keep himself from being caught.

I knew that when this book came out that I would be reading it. I am a huge true crime fan and found myself reading everything I could about the Golden State Killer. Holes worked with Michelle McNamara on her investigation for the book I'll Be Gone in the Dark and developed a true friendship with her. If there were anything I could change about this audiobook it would be not having Holes narrate simply because he has a habit of over-enunciating his letter t sounds and it made my eye twitch every time I heard it. All in all, this was a book well worth my reading time.

[carolesrandomlife · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really liked this book! I had no idea who Paul Holes was when I picked up this book but it didn’t take long before I was captivated by this book. It is still kind of amazing to me that the same person would have been a part of so many high-profile cases. This was the kind of book that I would think about when I wasn’t reading so I can understand why Mr. Holes had a hard time getting these cases out of his head. I am so glad that I decided to give this book a try.

Paul Holes is credited with helping to catch the Golden State Killer. One might say that he was almost obsessed with finding who was responsible for these rapes and murders and sometimes pursued leads against the directions of his superiors. A lot of this book is dedicated to detailing these crimes and what went into breaking the case. I found all of this to be very interesting since I knew little about these crimes. He was also a part of the investigation of the Laci Peterson and Jaycee Dugard cases which were well-known. Those aren’t the only cases covered in the book and many of the others were not only eye-opening but heart-breaking. I should also note that Paul Holes worked in the crime lab so science plays a role in this book and I really liked seeing how forensics helps to solve cases.

We also get to see Mr. Holes’s personal life and how his job impacted his family life. I was impressed that he shared so many personal details in this book. He gave so much to his job that there was often not much left to share with his wife and children. He acknowledges his obsession with finding these criminals and how it took over his life. I also appreciated his candor when discussing the obstacles he faced when trying to work with other municipalities in trying to solve cases.

I would highly recommend this book to others. It was the kind of book that made me think and also appreciate the people who put so much of themselves out there to help make the world a safer place.

I received an advanced review copy of this book from Celadon Books.

[grandmacootie · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a fascinating book. Exciting, thrilling, and scary if you live in the very area author Paul Holes writes about. He is a natural investigator, criminologist, groundbreaker and crime solver. He is bursting with intelligence and ingenuity, and you can feel his passion for his work, his dedication to the victims, his at times Don Quixote-like quest for the truth and justice. And you can see and feel through his own words how this passion and determination became an obsession and harmed nearly everything in his life: his work standing and work relationships, his family and personal relationships, and his own mental health and well-being. He recognizes it and makes some adjustments but it appears even after his retirement from Bay Area law enforcement his quest continues. He just can’t help it.

When I told my co-workers in the early 1990s that I was buying a home in Antioch they raised their eyebrows and one asked if I had bought a gun. After reading this book I understand why. I came into town the back way on the tree-lined streets where orchards had been, but it turns out the roads I took to go shopping or the neighborhoods on the other side of town that did seem a little seamy were a lot more dangerous. As in, “Antioch a Bay Area suburb. Antioch had a seedy reputation, fueled mostly by crime-infested neighborhoods and street gangs.” Author Paul Holes has lots of stories about lots of Bay Area suburbs like Antioch, and they are riveting. He tells the story of his entry into crime-solving and the world he found himself in. It’s a fast-paced book full of facts I knew and other little bits that had me wide-eyed. He tells of the successes and of many frustrating failures to catch the criminal. Of his frustration and disappointment and refusal to do anything but continue to revisit those crimes over and over to look for any little thing that might have been missed or come to light.

And with the Golden State Killer he succeeded. Amazing – and sobering – to realize just how unglamourous this work is, how much attention to detail, patience, perseverance it takes. And how much luck.

Thanks to Celadon Books for providing an advance copy of Unmasked: My Life Solving America's Cold Cases for my honest review. I could not put it down. While I was aware of many of the cases detailed in the book, Holes provides a unique viewpoint, an insider look at what it’s like on the law enforcement side and what can be happening in our neighborhoods all around us. Unmasked is well written, smoothly laid out so the chronology flows and the timelines are easy to keep track of. Holes is relentless, brave, admirable. And often a sad figure because of how his obsession with crime-solving has affected the rest of his life. I recommend Unmasked without hesitation. All opinions are my own.
@CeladonBooks #UnmaskedBook #CeladonReads

[gpangel_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unmasked: My Life Solving America’s Cold Cases by Paul Holes is a 2022 Celadon Books publication.

I may be the only true crime fan that has never gotten into podcasts. But even you aren't aware of Paul's wildly popular True Crime podcasts, you may still recognize him from his many appearances on true crime television shows. You might also be familiar with his name in connection with to the East Area Rapist/Golden State Killer case- which was the case for me.

While this is a memoir- it might be better described as a 'true crime' memoir as, for the most part, the book is focused on his career path, the cases he worked and the outcomes, but does delve into personal life, as well.

The main criminal case the book is centered around is the East Area Rapist/Golden State Killer case, but he tells of many other cases he helped to solve and described how his career started, how he got bitten by the 'cold case' bug and why he often had to work those cases 'off the clock'.

Unlike some of his crime solving buddies, Paul is not an amateur sleuth. He has a background in criminology, having worked in the Sheriff's department in Contra Costa. But, it is his work on cold cases that he seems the most proud of.

If not for Paul’s dedication, and near obsession with cold cases, many of these cases would still be sitting in an unsolved folder somewhere, I’m sure. Now, though, many families finally got the answers they deserved, justice was served, and some people were exonerated from suspicion.

That said, I admit I do have some misgivings, if that is the right word, about the 'obsessive' mentality of folks like Billy Jensen, Michelle McNamara, and Paul Holes. On one hand, I greatly admire their tenacious dedication, but on the other, I see a lot of collateral damage.

When it came to Paul's personal life, he was not as heroic, in my opinion. With memoirs it can be hard to keep an unbiased view or maintain neutrality if one disagrees with the writer's perspective, though I really did try to talk myself down and keep it in perspective.

In this case, Paul's work/family balance was hard for me to fully accept and speaks to the 'obsessiveness' he seems to deliberately chose over his loved ones. He also blames the wrong entity for all the evil in this world, and I felt offended by his critical views on faith and God.

I also grew weary of the dissection of his first marriage, which basically felt like defensive grievance airing, with one instance in particular resulting in a hard eye roll on my part. I think I would have preferred hearing more about his current wife, who works in the same profession, and appears to be a much better match for him.

All that said, most people are going to buy this book for the true crime stories, and on that front, Holes delivers wholeheartedly.

Despite my reservations in some cases, and my concern about glorifying and monetizing this manic lifestyle, I am glad we have people like Paul who are willing to go the extra mile, and I’m glad to see that his hard work has morphed into a second career for him.

There is no question that many of us breathe a little easier now that a truly horrifying monster has been identified and is off the streets, and that the victims and their families can finally stop looking over their shoulders, and will get some long overdue justice. For that peace of mind, we can thank Paul and his partners in crime, so to speak, and of course I have utmost respect the people who sacrificed much, and who refused to give up on these cold cases.

Overall, a very interesting glimpse into the life of a cold case investigator. The cases highlighted are well-chosen and have all the elements true crime fanatics want to read and hear about. If you are a fan of Paul’s podcasts, and of the true crime genre, you won’t want to miss this book.

4 stars